As I left the naïve sweetness of my highschool hippie years and entered the bitter reality of adulthood, my fight-or-flight instincts flared up in response to our society’s hostile lifestyle. Sensing the infection of busyness, I had to flee the cancerous contamination of contrived conformity, and learn to get up, stand up, and fight for my right: freedom of self-governance, freedom of expression, love for the downtrodden, love for the Earth. But it ain’t easy to cultivate freedom and love when they’re being cut down by the double-edged chainsaw of commerce. The weeds sprouting up in their place: the hollow responsibility of citizenship, and heavily-regulated recreation. For me, the fight for love and freedom became a two-front war. I’d torch the regulatory ramparts and blaze unrestrained through the flames of selfish oblivion, then turn around and burn down the walls of adult routine to offer my energy to another in need. The writing on the wall told me that life is a battle between freedom and love. I didn’t want to believe these two were opposites, but as the wheel of time continued to turn, evidence of this ying-yang relationship kept coming ‘round. Simply put, life is a bittersweet brew. So to keep it simple, set your sights on the glowing balance between love and freedom… and then just fly! Set it and forget it. Us flies can’t help but be enchanted by the shimmering synthetic casino lights of urban geography. We blindly gamble our precious gifts, instead of using the tools for what they’re meant. The only way to not end up another dead bug on a fluorescent light is to face your fears and follow your heart into the hills, where the wires don’t reach. Bring your loved ones, and plan to make more. When the desert casinos dry up and all the flies swarm to the mountain lakes, the only ones who’ll pass on their wings will be the weather-hardened colonies. Continual consumer convenience will prove to be the fatal inconvenience… for the consumers. But for the independent jolly campers, the materials of global exploitation are waiting to be re-exploited by the resistant tribes of pioneer pirates, sacking the system for its useful resources. Active re-creation instead of passive recreation. And at the end of the day, when the moon takes it watch, we return to the comfort of camp after a successful raid, and the only real light to stare into is the glowing campfire. All we can do then is sing the words we know to the tunes we remember, forgetting the google facts, record label branding, and copyrights. It’s not as simple as sweet highschool naïveté, but with a bit of bitter it’s a better brew.